Only Pretty Damned

by Niall Howell

  As we approach Lakewood Track, I notice Horace is fidgeting with his hands. He’s sliding the scratched-up wedding band on his ring finger up and down over the knuckle and his eyes are shifting back and forth anxiously. We pull up outside the track, and before we’ve come to a complete stop, I stand up and step to the side, letting Horace leave the seat and make his way up the aisle. Whispers scuttle through the bus as he makes his way to the front door. I’m about to follow him out, but Purple Suit pushes past me from behind. He walks hastily up the aisle, and just before reaching the door, collides with a man in a navy blue suit and matching hat who stood up from his seat without first shoulder-checking. Purple Suit pushes past the man the same way he pushed past me, only this time, he throws his shoulder into it a bit more, causing the man in the navy blue suit to spin around halfway. The half spin gets me a look at the guy’s face—Andrew’s face. He looks at me, and while I’m sure that I look shocked to see him, he looks more irritated than surprised to spot me. His hat is pulled down low in the front, like he’s been trying to obscure his face. I must have walked right past him when I’d first boarded the bus, but I was probably too concerned with finding a seat to notice him at all. Without saying a word, Andrew whips around, turning his back to me, and promptly exits the bus. From inside, I see him rush for the gates and get swept up in the flow of busybody bettors.

  I get off the bus and hustle through the gate and toward the wagering window, where I’m sure Andrew is heading. The place is busy for this time—around eleven a.m.—on a weekday. Lots of shoving and bumping of shoulders. I quicken my pace to the window, getting a bit pushy myself. The lineup is a couple dozen long at least. Andrew is about ten men from the back of the line. He’s looking around like he’s searching for someone. It was unexpected to see him on the bus; he never gets to the track this early on any day. And something about seeing me there seemed to piss him off—more so than laying eyes on me would have pissed him off on any other day, that is. I’m careful to avoid his darting gaze. I creep past the lineup and make myself invisible by standing in a blind spot next to a coffee cart opposite it. A few more men hop in line. I hold off for a few more to come, and then I find what I’m waiting for: a refrigerator-shaped fellow cabooses onto the horde of waiting bettors. I scurry over and stand behind him, peering around him every few seconds to see what Andrew’s up to.

  He’s in the upper half now, still looking back and forth. I notice now that he’s clenching his fists.

  The lineup gets a little melty near the top, so I lose sight of him as he gets closer to the window. A couple of minutes later, he emerges, exiting with a ticket in his hand. If this were any other time, he’d leave the track right about now, but not today. Today, he heads straight for the bleachers, checking over his shoulder every few steps as he crosses through the crowd.

  A HORSE NAMED HIGH TIDE LANDS ME FIFTEEN DOLLARS. I take the fifteen and put it all on Duke during the next race. I drink beer and crunch peanuts and watch Duke turn my money into a memory. Andrew is sitting a number of rows down from me. I’d found a spot in a corner that allowed me a good vantage point. This high up, I feel like an eagle looking down from his nest. There’s a couple who look to be in their late twenties sitting a couple rows ahead of me. They also won big on High Tide, and their method of celebration fits in with my eagle’s nest motif—watching them go at it makes me think of the way birds feed their young. They remind me why isolated corner spots are usually vacant.

  Andrew is still checking over his shoulder every so often. I can’t figure him out. Every other time I’ve seen him at the races, he buys a ticket and then leaves before the race starts. I know from my one run-in with Genevieve back in Pensacola that she believes he stays at the races for at least a few hours whenever he goes. Today, though, he actually does stay for at least a few hours. But for all I know, his stay has something to do with him spotting me. Or, rather, him spotting me spotting him.

  If I’ve been as careful as I think I’ve been at the tracks, today is the only day he knows I’m here and that I’ve seen him. I’ve got a hunch that if he goes to the track in Baltimore, he’ll be extra vigilant. And if he doesn’t go to the track in Baltimore? Well, it’s clear he’s up to something he wants to keep secret from Genevieve. Maybe he’s having an affair, or he’s got himself a habit and he spends his days in shooting galleries. Or maybe he just wants some alone time, some time with his favourite person: himself. Anyway, whatever he’s up to, he wants it to stay hush-hush. And that means he’ll need an excuse—a place he can tell Genevieve he’s going. The track’s worked for him so far, and it’s probably worked well because he leaves with a ticket, with proof of his whereabouts. But now he knows I go to the track too, and there’s at least a possibility that I could catch him buying a ticket and leaving before that ticket is of any use.

  My guess is in Baltimore, he goes to the track, because switching gears would look suspicious. I could try following him from the track again, but it would be more difficult than ever if he’s expecting to run into me. My best bet, then, would be to go to the track, but somehow convince him I’m nowhere near the track. If I can do that and lull him into a false sense of security, I’d have a better chance of tailing him to wherever he goes. And for all I know, that wherever could provide me with an even better opportunity for my cathartic goodbye. It could also not, but a little optimism never hurt anyone.

  I notice my beer is nearly empty, so I scarf my remaining peanuts and wash them down with the last mouthful, then get up to refill and place one more bet. Ten bucks on Bayonet, a chalk-white thoroughbred with just the right amount of risk to him.

  Don’t let me down now, Bay. Duke screwed me, and I’ve got to at least break even today.

  BACK AT THE PIEDMONT. I DIDN'T WANT TO RISK SITTING AT the hotel bar and running into Genevieve and Andrew, so I had room service send up a couple bottles of wine for us. Gloria isn’t very talkative tonight. She’s been getting on my case about how often I go to the track, so I tell her I spent my day doing some sightseeing and taking in a couple pictures, which is what I’d told her I’d be up to before coming to Atlanta. I ask her about what she did during the day and she tells me, “This and that.” Further prying gets me: “The usual, with the usual girls.” I tell her about the movie I didn’t really see. While I speak, she turns and stares out the window at the hanging sickle moon. She finds something fascinating to look at on the back of her hand. She becomes mesmerized with the way the red wine tumbles around her glass as she rolls it.

  “Is something nagging at you?” I ask.

  “Why would anything be nagging at me?” she says.

  I shrug and refill my glass. Hers still has plenty in it, but when she notices me pouring, she walks over to me and holds out her glass for me to fill.

  “What, are you worried I’m going to drink it all? If we run out, I can order up a couple more bottles.”

  “I’m not worried,” she says, then brings the glass to her head and takes a sip that pretty much puts her back to where she was before I topped her off.

  “It’s a shame you didn’t bring Scrabble with you.”

  “Why would I? I never bring it when we go to the city. I like to travel light. The last thing I’d want to carry around is a big box with a million little pieces rattling around inside it.”

  The window is open a crack, but it feels stuffy. I walk over and open it all the way. I light a smoke and blow a mouthful out into the night sky, narrowing my lips to make a dense stream. I exhale for as long as my lungs let me and watch the smoke coil into the darkness, seeing how far my cloud will go before vanishing. I shift my gaze to the moon. I think about how it’s the same moon everyone’s staring at everywhere that it’s nighttime, and I wonder if in Russia, there’s maybe some sort of cosmic hammer crossing its curve.

  The tap of a glass brings me back to the room. Gloria has set her empty glass on the nightstand. The bottle of red—our second bottle of the evening—is empty.

  “Is there a
contest I don’t know about?”

  “No,” she says.

  “I’ll get them to send another bottle up.”

  I pick up the telephone, but before I dial the front desk, Gloria says, “Don’t bother. I think I need to go.”

  “Now what the hell has gotten into you? Apart from what I’d guess is about two litres of wine at this point.”

  “Nothing. I just don’t feel well,” she says. “And not because of the wine. I’ve been feeling…off all day. I should go back to my hotel and rest.”

  “You’re welcome to rest here,” I say. “Here is a lot closer than there. Always is.”

  “No. Thank you. I think I’ll head back.” She goes to fetch her coat off the rack. Her drunken movements border on clumsy. She’s struggling to get one of her arms in its sleeve. I walk over and help her out.

  “If something’s wrong, let me know and I can—”

  “I just don’t feel well, Toby. That’s all.” She buttons her coat, leans in, gives me a peck on the cheek, and opens the door. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight. I’ll call the desk and make sure they have a cab for you.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you back at the circus.”

  I go to pull the door shut, but she takes care of it before I’ve taken two steps.

  WATER INVADES THE BOWELS OF A SHIP FIRST. Cargo storage, boiler and engine rooms. The hot, dark, and dingy, uninhabitable spaces of a moving vessel, that’s where the flooding starts, adding weight and fucking up the balance of a ship. Dragging it into the depths.

  Wally Jakes lived in the bowels. He was the man who’d shovel coal and stoke fires. He’d monitor meter needles and crank wheels and make sure the steam kept on blowing. Rowland drove the ship, sure, but it was Wally who made movement possible. He was a doer. When he had to be, he was a manipulator. And dwelling in the bowels, you can bet he’d be the first one to spot a leak and plug it.

  The thing about Rowland’s World Class Circus, though, was that there were always a lot of leaks. Some of them could be patched up no problem, but some required a bit more work. Wally wasn’t afraid to get a little wet if he had to, and he’d always do whatever needed to be done to keep things rolling. But when too many leaks spring up at once, you can bet that if anyone knows the ship is doomed, it’s going be the man down below. Now, every ship’s got an evacuation protocol, and that protocol has a thing or two to say about who hops in a lifeboat first, last, and all points between. I can guarantee you that there’s not a ship floating today that says the first man to ditch is the man on the bottom. But I don’t blame Wally for what he did, because protocol or not, I believe every man and woman has a certain self-preservation instinct that kicks in in situations like that. No, I don’t blame Wally at all. And I don’t think he would blame me either.

  I USUALLY SLEEP JUST FINE WHEN IT'S COLD OUT. THE HEAT, the heat is what gives me trouble. I have a bastard of a time trying to touch saw to wood on even a slightly warm evening. But the cold? That’s easy. Falling asleep on a cold night as is formulaic as the blues. When you first tuck yourself under the covers, it’s not the most pleasant place to be, enveloped in a cold cocoon of blankets like that, but once you’re under, that’s half the battle! Your body gets word that you’re all wrapped up like a burrito and it goes, Hey, there’s some potential here. You find your position—maybe it’s up against someone else, or maybe you return to Position Number One and get fetal—and then your body radiates the warmth you’re craving. For me, once I’m good and comfy, the second I hit the perfect temperature, I’m out like a broken bulb.

  So you can imagine my confusion and irritation three years ago on that chilly late-September night, when I lay in bed next to Genevieve, as awake and as alert as I’m capable of being, long after I’d hit the sack.

  I drank liqueur-infused warm milk.

  I counted sheep, and then, when that got old, moved on to wool sweaters.

  I chugged half a quart of rye.

  I closed my eyes and imagined infinite nothing and stared at it until it crumbled and became infinite something.

  Believe me, I tried. But come three a.m.—not a damn wink.

  My last resort was to get up and go for a walk outside. The cold does things to your body. It has a way of wearing you down without you even noticing you’re being worked. The small number of times I’d found myself in this rare predicament, a good walk in the cold did the trick.

  I crept out of bed and put my jacket on over my pyjamas. I wiggled my feet into my shoes, but didn’t bother tying the laces. Genevieve was a heavy sleeper, but I knew I still needed to use tact in dealing with our door. Its hinges had the whine of a suffering trumpet, and it was high-pitched enough to raise even the deepest of sleepers. The only way to keep it quiet was to push against it—as if you were shutting it—at the same time as you pulled it open, using only the tiniest bit more force on the pulling end in order to get the job done.

  The door was cooperative that night. I opened and closed it behind me with only a muffled whimper expressing its dissatisfaction at being roused at such an hour.

  The icy night air needled into me. It was cut-you-off-mid-breath chilly—much colder than usual for Seattle that time of year. I did up the top button of my jacket and shoved my hands in my pockets—I wanted to be chilly, not cold-blooded. One nearby trailer had a lamp flickering inside, but otherwise every window in sight was black. My feet swished through ankle-tall grass, frost-kissed blades wetting the cuffs of my pants and sneaking in an ankle caress here and there. I was wandering with no real sense of direction and no destination. I’ve always found that minimal structure is best when you’re trying to coax yourself into fatigue. If you’re doing it right, your mind starts to get hip to the whole wandering idea, and if you let yourself get tired enough, it will venture off and leave you behind. That was the goal for me. Get myself so weary that my mind would ditch and leave me with only enough sense to sneak back to my trailer and crawl back into bed.

  The big top’s peak poked up at the end of the maze of trailers. If I was walking toward it, which I may have been, I was doing so in the most inefficient path possible. I’d loop around one trailer and then cross over to the next row, circle one or two, and then return to the side I’d just come from, sometimes farther back than I had originally crossed from. I was like a Snakes and Ladders game piece, moving back and forth in no discernably logical manner, as if controlled by a guiding hand from above, or below.

  I was growing more and more tired, but tired wasn’t good enough. The goal was exhaustion or bust. I wasn’t going to return to a night of tossing and turning. If I was going so far as to drag myself up out of bed to walk around in the cold, then you can bet your ass I wasn’t settling for anything less than a deep, stones-throw-from-a-coma sleep that would leave me well-rested and refreshed—the way any headlining performer ought to be when he’s got to deal with the pressure of getting a tent-full to pitch a full tent.

  The booze I had pounded during my earlier efforts was finally beginning to grasp me. My legs got lighter and my swooshing steps brushed across the grass in loose, broad strokes.

  Finally, my staggering brought me to the end of the trailer maze, facing the backside of the big top. No longer just a teasing peak, the cathedral beckoned.

  I walked around it, tracing the canvas with my fingers as I went. When I reached the front, I lifted the flap and walked in.

  When a room is that dark, it has a different feeling to it. Like the air is thicker, heavier. Like it’s not actually empty, but in fact fuller than it ever could be in the light. It’s a nice feeling at first, but then it blankets you with cold pinpricks and wraps its pointy fingers around your throat, and suddenly you feel like an intruder who just busted into the wrong home.

  I fumbled a matchbook out of my pyjama pocket, plucked a match and struck it—it was a stillborn. I plucked a second one and scraped it across the matchbook’s rough strip. It lit.

  The burning match cast just enough light to confirm t
hat I had hands and wrists—two of each, in fact—and that I hadn’t been absorbed by the shadows the moment I stepped through the flap. I stared at the flame, watching it blacken the head of the match and then blaze its way down the cardboard stem. The flame struggled the closer it got to my fingers, and just as its heat began to hurt, it vanished, as if pinched out between an invisible thumb and forefinger. Observing the lifespan of a flame was a soothing pleasure. It was lulling and it was mesmerizing, and it sometimes felt voyeuristic. I found my pocket and grabbed the matchbook again, ready to light another, but then a distant voice rattled me, causing me to fumble and drop the matchbook into the hungry darkness.

  The voice I’d heard was far enough away that I couldn’t make out any words, but I recognized that guttural pitch anywhere. I turned around and walked toward the voice, which was coming from somewhere outside the big top, but when I reached the canvas wall, I couldn’t find an opening. I pushed at the canvas, trying to uncover the flap that had let me in.

  But the dark was so disorienting.

  I began working my way along the perimeter, as I’d done earlier on the outside. Navigating was a lot different in darkness, though. More than once, I’d prod at an area that seemed to have more give to it than the last spot I’d touched, so I’d think I was close to the opening, but when I’d reach further to where the flap ought to be, I’d only get a fistful of rough canvas, so I’d go back to pushing and prodding and groping my way along the big top wall. I imagined the tent flap tip-toeing away from me, taking a couple steps further every time I got too close, leading me all the way around the big circular void.

  I could still hear the voice in the distance. It would start and stop, start and stop.